Secondborn

by Amy A. Bartol

  The commander points to the unconscious soldier, circling. After a full rotation, he approaches the wounded man. Holding the pouch of beacons above the Tropo’s head, the commander empties the satchel. The discs cascade down, sticking like black rain to the soldier’s skin and uniform. A deafening surge of cheers erupts again.

  The other soldiers drop the wounded man and back away. Death drones pause at the threshold of the hallway where the soldiers emerged. The entire deck grows silent. Everyone backs away from the tagged man.

  Except me. I step toward him.

  Emmy grasps my sleeve. “Roselle,” she hisses. “There’s no saving him now.” I yank my arm from her and push through the crowd.

  Black-bodied death drones emerge silently from the adjacent tunnel, like giant bats from the maw of a cave, following the call of the beacons—the sound too high-pitched for us to register.

  Hovering over the wounded soldier’s body, one death drone flashes blue laser lights upon its bloody target. The other drones join it, and the soldier is covered in blue triangles. A moment passes, then two. My throat tightens. I try to get closer, but broad shoulders block my advance, and before I can find a way through, the death drones begin to fire steel slugs into the brain of the Tropo soldier.

  I turn from the carnage, feeling ill. Emmy, who had been following, takes me by the arm and wrenches me away from the cheers and jeers of the overworked mob. She drags me into a lavatory and pushes me into a private stall near the back. “Breathe slower,” she says softly. I bend and try to catch my breath. She places her cool hand on the back of my neck.

  “They never even gave him a trial!” I whisper.

  “There are no trials here, Roselle. There’s only survival. You go against them and you forfeit the right to breathe their air.”

  “You can’t believe that,” I mutter.

  “It’s true.” She takes a few deep breaths with me. “I can’t save everyone, but this is my shot at saving you. Keep your head down. Do your job and you’ll get through this. The harder you work, the faster you’ll rise, and you could make it out of here. It won’t always be like this. This war will be over one day and things will go back to normal.”

  “What’s normal?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know—less violence, more boredom. Listen, let me show you to your dining hall, get you some water. You can schedule time to come and talk to me during my office hour rotations when your unit is stationed here. You’ll be okay.”

  Straightening, I nod. A smile of relief crosses her lips. We leave the bathroom together, and my hand shakes as I raise it to look at the map above my moniker. Emmy pretends she doesn’t see my overactive nerves. We follow the map to the nearest cafeteria.

  “This is where I leave you, Roselle,” Emmy says at the entrance. “You can contact me on your moniker if you have questions.”

  “Okay.” I nod. But it’s not okay. I’m numb.

  “Here.” She shoves the bag of crellas into my hand. “You need these more than Stanton. Remember what I said. Contact me if you need me.” With that, she turns and walks to a heartwood, steps onto it, and disappears from sight.

  Chapter 11

  That Newcomer Smell

  There’s almost nowhere to be alone here. The mob sweeps me into the dining hall. Overheated boys slap each other on the backs and shout boisterously to companions. Those who seem disturbed by what they just saw are harder to find.

  I scroll through the carousel of cuisine options, the bag of crellas under my arm. The selection of palatable food is limited. The meat options look suspect. I opt for porridge with fruit, toast, and cheese. Ample portions are jettisoned onto a hovering tray that trails me, tracking my moniker as I walk through the seating area. Most of the tables are completely occupied. Every time I think I locate an empty seat, someone looks up, sees me coming, and slides a tray into the empty space at the table. After the fourth time, I begin to take it personally.

  Farther back in the dining hall, the uniforms change from beige and blue to other hues. Golden-colored uniforms—Fate of Stars power and technology engineers—are also assigned to this facility. But there is no intermingling between Swords and Stars. I see the red-colored uniforms of the Fate of Atoms medical and science engineers, but not the orange-colored uniforms of the Stone-Fated workers.

  I attempt to join a table occupied by four Star-monikered engineers. They seem alarmed as I take a seat and my hovering tray settles in front of me. Three of them rise and depart, leaving half-eaten entrees behind. The trays quickly clear themselves from the table. I turn to the Star-Fated man beside me. The tag on his uniform reads Jakes.

  “You must be new here,” he mutters. He shovels food into his mouth as if he’s never eaten before, or else he’s trying to eat fast so he can leave.

  “I was processed this morning.” I rest the package of crellas on the table beside me. I unfold a cloth napkin in my lap, pick up my spoon, and stir my steaming porridge. I have no appetite for it, but I know I need to eat it. I have training after this. “Why did they leave?”

  “They don’t want any trouble.”

  “Am I trouble?”

  “Not only are you a Sword, you’re The Sword.”

  “My mother is The Sword. I’m just the secondborn Sword. I should be treated like everyone else here.”

  He snorts. “Good luck with that. If you’re looking for fairness and equality, you’ve come to the wrong place. Let me clue you in. We’re not supposed to sit together, even if you weren’t St. Sismode. Fates don’t intermingle.”

  “Where’s it written that I’m not allowed to sit with you?”

  “It’s not written—everyone just knows it.”

  “It’s a ridiculous rule, and I don’t see you leaving.”

  He doesn’t look at me. “I’m hungry. I missed breakfast and I don’t have a lot of success earning merits.” His thick glasses are proof. He could correct his vision if he had the merits to do it. “Why did you sit with us anyway? Don’t you want to fit in with your own kind?”

  “I couldn’t find a seat with them.”

  “They’re giving you the hot end of the sword, are they?” he asks with a sarcastic smile. “I’m not surprised. Most of them have underdeveloped brains coupled with mommy and daddy issues. They were turned over to the government before they got their first pimple because their families began to fear them.” His scorn is sharper because it’s true.

  “You act like you fear them.”

  He waves his hand, gesturing to the sea of brown and blue uniforms around us. “I am somewhat outnumbered here.”

  “True.” I try a bite of my porridge and wince. It’s awful.

  “Not what you were expecting?” he asks, gesturing toward my bowl.

  “That would be an understatement.”

  He sets aside his fork and wipes his mouth. “If you live long enough, you’ll still never get used to it.” He begins to stand.

  “I didn’t sit at your table looking for a friend, Jakes.” Our eyes meet.

  “What do you want?” he asks, sitting back down on the edge of his seat.

  I take my fusionblade from my thigh-strapped scabbard and slide it onto the table between us. “Can this be converted to hydrogen power?”

  He looks at the weapon, then at me. “Why would you want to do something like that? Fusion is so much more powerful than hydrogen.”

  “I’m asking if it can be done. Can it?”

  His hand reaches out and touches the cool silver hilt. “I think so. I’d have to play around with one to be sure, but I think you can swap out a fusion-powered cell for a hydrogen-powered one and still keep it in the same housing.”

  “I don’t want to swap it out. I want a way to switch it over. A fusionblade and a hydroblade in one unit. Is there a way to toggle between them? I’ll make it worth your while. I never forget a kindness.”

  He leans back in his chair. “What do I get in return?”

  “These, to start.” I push the paper
bag toward him.

  He looks at it warily, then pulls it nearer and opens it. His face brightens. “How did you get these?” he asks. “There are four of them here! I’ve only ever had a small piece of a crella.”

  “Consider this a payment for hearing me out. If you can’t help me, all I ask is that you don’t say anything to anyone else. If you can help me, I’ll be in this dining hall for every meal until I ship out for active duty in a couple of days. We can discuss payment when you have something for me.”

  Jakes closes the bag and tucks it inside a small satchel. “I’ll think about it.” He rises as if to leave.

  I grasp his wrist and squeeze it lightly. “Think about it fast. I don’t have much time.”

  Jakes begins to nod when a rough hand falls on his shoulder and forces him back down into his seat. “Aw, this is a pretty picture.” A snub-nosed Sword cadet with a shaved head crouches between us. “Are yous having a date night or something? Is this an automated pay-to-play meetin’?” Behind us, four Tropos laugh. “I says it has to be random because no one would ever sleep with this guy on purpose.” The beefy hand of the Sword comes down hard again on Jakes’s shoulder.

  The malicious man turns to me and sneers. “Look here! We have a celebrity in our midst! Tell me, Roselle”—his eyebrows come down in a thoughtful look—“do you plan to sleep with every male you meet? I hear that you and Clifton Salloway are quite the thing. What would your mother say?”

  I reach up, grip the back of his bald head, and slam his forehead on the table. His head bounces and leaves a bloody indentation in the veneer. He slides to the floor and groans. I lift my fusionblade, ignite it, and swing its golden glow between me and the man on the ground’s entourage. They back away warily. I look at Jakes’s pale, strained face. “You can go now.”

  He lurches to his feet, a bead of sweat dropping from his brow. Gathering his possessions, he slips away from the table and out of the dining hall. I extinguish my sword, tuck it back into my scabbard, sit, and resume eating as if nothing had happened. The groaning soldier’s friends drag him away as he holds his head. I pretend not to notice the thousand pairs of eyes fixated on me. I finish my meal and leave the hall in time to make the next appointment on my schedule.

  Jump training is my first class. I suit up in lightweight combat armor and am pushed out of a simulator module that mimics the velocity of being tossed out of a troopship. The free fall to the simulated terrain is the easy part. I learn to stretch out as the air pushes against me, and the terrain detector on my suit activates, creating a force that fights gravity and slows my descent. Then I feel as if I’m being torn apart; my limbs want to keep falling while my torso is held back. The instructor screams, “Back straight and chest out!” I use every muscle available as he hollers at me to lift my head before it smashes into the ground when the gravity regulator turns off. I hit the simulated dirt hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

  I’m not unhappy to strip off the armor at the end of the training session. I rub my sore neck and hurry to my next class: weapons training. I’m instructed on the parts of a rifle. I listen to the instructor with only half an ear because I already know everything he explains. He notices my inattention and calls on me. “You there. Come ’ere. You think you’re too clever for this class?”

  “No, Patrøn.”

  “I want you to reassemble this rifle and shoot that target there.” He pulls a timepiece from his pocket. “Go.”

  I reassemble the rifle in under ten seconds and shoot the target. The shot is dead-on. An unbidden smile crosses his lips, and his eyes narrow in mirth. He turns his timepiece to show the other instructor, whose mouth shapes an O. For the rest of the session, they make me shoot at everything that moves on their simulated battlefield. A crowd forms to watch me take down simulated enemies with one-shot-one-kill accuracy, eliciting wary and envious stares from my fellow classmates.

  My next class is fusionblade training. I’d like to skip this one. I’m already a pariah, my advanced training alienating me from my fellow Tropo cadets, but there’s no way of avoiding it, so I enter the training room and stretch while we await the instructor.

  The instructor’s name is Chaplan. He’s Meso, two ranks above me. Tall and strong with a full beard and green eyes, he instructs us to call him “Master of Swords” or “Master” for short. He gives us an initial demonstration of his skills, and although he has a decent understanding of how to wield a fusionblade, he doesn’t strike me as someone who has mastered it.

  We pair off and use modified training swords capable of leaving burns and bruises but not removing limbs. The first cadet I pair with has had next to no training. He’s not happy that I know more than he does and asks to switch partners during our first break.

  I beat several cadets in mock battles, and then I’m asked to spar with Master Chaplan’s assistant, Brody. Master Chaplan stops the fight when it’s plain that I could take Brody’s head off. The Master taps in, relieving his assistant. He indicates that I should switch from my training fusionblade to my combat sword.

  I bow to him as is customary, straighten, and stand before him, watching as he executes a series of moves. I’d be impressed if they weren’t my moves from a virtual access instructional training session recorded a few years ago. Is he trying to let me know he has trained with me, or is he trying to pass that off as his own work?

  Whatever the case, he gets cheers from the cadets. They’re waiting for someone to take me down a notch. Apparently, no one likes a know-it-all. I consider deference for a few seconds, and then my pride kicks in, and I change my mind. “Are you ready, cadet?” Master Chaplan asks with palpable condescension.

  My chin dips, a small assent. I hold my sword with both hands, the hilt near my right shoulder. He circles me, his back stooped as if he’s more inclined to wrestle than to battle with swords. I stand perfectly still. Waiting. He charges at me from behind. I easily catch the angle of his sword with my own, blocking him. He lunges. I sidestep, planting my left foot on his thigh, twisting my body, and wrapping my right ankle around his throat. Then it’s only a matter of arching my back and throwing my weight backward, which chokes him and causes him to fall flat on his back lest I snap his head from his neck. With a small backflip, I land on my feet.

  He struggles to rise from the mat, startled and winded. He gazes around at the silent crowd, rattled by the takedown, but instead of acknowledging my skill, his pride gets the better of him. He begins to stalk me again.

  I wish he wouldn’t take this personally, but he has. He lowers his eyelids and puckers his mouth. I kick him in the side and block his sword as it descends from above my head. My kick moves him into position in front of me, and I swing my fusionblade across my body from right to left. At the last possible second before striking, I loosen my grip. The blade extinguishes as I sweep it across his body. Everyone cries out, certain that they’ll see him fall in pieces. My grip tightens again once the blade has cleared his body, the move so quick it creates the illusion that my sword passed right through him.

  It’s a parlor trick, and if Dune were here, he’d scold me for it, but I don’t feel the least bit guilty. Master Chaplan drops his sword and touches his chest with rising panic. He stares at me as understanding dawns. His mouth is no longer pinched in anger. It contracts in fear as he realizes he’s punching above his weight.

  From behind me, someone claps slow and loud. “Bravo! Brav-o!” It’s Agent Crow. A group of black-coated Census agents wind their way around the room, taking up positions by the doors. I extinguish my sword and sheathe it.

  “You do have a knack,” Agent Crow says, “for making people look ridiculous.” He turns to my instructor, whose face is mottled and flushed. “Don’t worry. I once underestimated her, too. It’s a failing that we cannot be too hard on ourselves for committing. We must both promise each other never, ever to do it again.”

  Agent Crow strolls toward me, his black leather coat flaring in his wake. The training facility has g
rown quiet. “Agent, to what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Chaplan asks.

  “Census has been given a new assignment. It just came down to us today.” Agent Crow indicates the other Census agents lining the room. Soft murmurings of unease ripple through the crowd. “I’ve been tasked with transitioning this Base to new monikers.” The Census agents begin lining up the soldiers against the wall and scanning their existing monikers with handheld devices. “If you would please, step that way, Master of Swords. All of your questions will be answered by my associates.” He raises his hand and gestures in the direction of another Census agent. I try to leave as well, but Agent Crow blocks my path.

  “I already have a new moniker, Agent Crow. There’s no need to detain me. I’ll leave you to your duty.”

  He lifts my left hand, admiring the glow of the silver sword hologram. He frowns, his thumb running over my skin. “You had your scar removed.” His look is accusatory, as if I’d removed his brand of ownership.

  I pull my fingers from his grasp, my back rigid. “This must be a boring job for you, Agent Crow, being the hunter that you are.”

  He smiles, showing the gleam of steel teeth. “I thought that at first. This kind of work dulls the senses, but it’s proving to be interesting.”

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy tearing into people’s flesh.” I try to walk away again, but he grasps me by my upper arm, staying me. I shake him off and back away a step.

  “Don’t you want to know what I’ve discovered?” he asks. “Or should I say, who I’ve discovered?” Does he know about Dune? I raise my eyebrows because I don’t trust my voice enough to speak. He comes closer, touching his halo-shaped moniker. The hologram changes to an image of Agnes Moon. “It would seem that your friend had a few secrets of her own.”

  Agent Crow stares at the menu on his moniker, selecting another option. It changes from Agnes’s profile to an image of her beaten almost beyond recognition. “The woman who came to take you from my custody was an imposter. She had a cloned moniker.” Bile rises in the back of my throat as I view the gruesome postmortem image. Agent Crow leans in close. “Thank you for the soaps, by the way. Did you know that if you wrap them in a towel, they become quite an effective bludgeoning weapon?”